


Sardonic Entropy

by Theworldshaker



Category: Vermintide, Warhammer Fantasy, warhammer the end times
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Asphyxiation, Gen, Gore, Issues that could’ve been solved by talking about them™️, Things happen with blood that should not happen with blood, Warhammer Vampires, Warhammer Were-beasts, and not the fun kind, blood sweat and more blood, pain and suffering and agony oh my!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-31 14:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13977549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theworldshaker/pseuds/Theworldshaker
Summary: Life, morality, and humanity come in a thousand shades of grey, and that is a truth a certain few hero’s are about to come to terms with.Victor Saltzpyre is a peculiar man. Tall, dark, and intimidating; he wears the title of Witch Hunter well. Such a shame that mistakes made early in his career could so easily put his job, and his life, on the line.[This is now a Collaberative work between @Randomosity and I]





	1. Curiosity

She’s grown weary of the witch hunter, of his snark, his uncanny Skaven obsession, most of all of his unprecedented paranoia.

Every morning he’s the first awake and downstairs planing routes and their alternate options with Lonher, he’s the last to retire to his room every night and is as soundless a sleeper as she. He’s stubbornly insistent upon ensuring they bind their wounds quickly, her bleeding wounds from hard fought battles seems to bother him most of all. Everything he says and does is odd, even for a lumberfoot with his history.

His defense of the Sergeants questionable habit of drunkenly vanishing is made all the more concerning by his apparent distaste for the mans drinking. Strange for him to comfort him the following mornings, as though he knows where he’s gone, what he’s been doing.

What bothers him so, as to pace his room in the wee hours of the morning, and to hold the Sargent so much higher than the rest? Stress and panic do many things, his ill-temperament speaks of this in volumes.

All of them are under duress, so why can’t he handle it?

The truth arrives when it’s least expected nor wanted, in the midst of battle. Her back to the others as they crush, pierce, bisect, and behead the present horde of clan rats. In The bloodied surface of Elm’s silver blade she catches a flash of the Sergeants face, eyes wide and mouth agape with manic laughter as he slices through the bodies of Skaven-Slaves, riding out his adrenaline high with the help of the executioners blade and it’s gruesome edge. 

To her left, a mere sliver through patches of red, she catches the reflection of the Witch Hunter. Or rather, the brim of his hat, and the high collar of his coat.

She brings both blades down into the head of the nearest Skaven, bringing them back up in a wide arc to try and catch another glimpse, but she finds nothing in its scarlet soaked surface.

Kerillian dare not look away from her many target, not with how intent this small crowd is on skewering her. Makeshift torches, spears, and flails are swung with reckless abandon as she weaves a bloody trail from one Skaven to another. 

A shout to her rear draws her attention, and against her better judgement, she withdraws. Bardin’s merry dwarven tune cut short by a pack-masters hook. Saltzpyre steps into her place as she doges backwards, rapier raised to deflect oncoming blows as she whirls on the spot, sheathing her blades and drawing her bow.

For a man with one eye, he has impressive peripherals.


	2. Exposure

She sits in the far corner of the Inn beside the forge, warming her fingers over it’s glowing coals as the others talk amongst themselves. Kruber is particularly rowdy tonight, engrossed in his current tale of how they’d killed the most recent Rat Ogre. 

Saltzpyre is quick to mention how they’re appearing more often, in his usual sour tone, how this should be troubling news. This cynicism is almost physically shooed away by their increasingly drunken Soldier.

Bardin Laughs along with Kruber, patting the Witch Hunter on the shoulder rather roughly as he joins in telling the tale. Sienna looks tired, her smile is gentle and patient despite her clear disinterest with the story. A few harsh barks of laughter are earned, both from the mention of Saltzpyre’s fumbled bomb throw, and a particularly ballsy Storm-vermin.

Tonight may end in mirth, but it’s the forced and hard fought kind that never stays it’s full welcome. They’re all worried, that this truly is the end and that the fall of Ubersriek will be the spark that lights the flame of chaos across the world, all of them dealing with it their own way. Bardin and Markus through their drinking, Sienna through the deliberate abuse of her magic.

Her and Saltzpyre through silent, ceaseless preparation for the next thing to go oh so terribly wrong.

She curls her fingers into her palms, turning the backs of her hands to the warmth of the forge for a moment before she pulls them away to rub some feeling back into them.

It’s been cold there in Ubersriek, the dreary weather never failing to sap her energy.

With a quiet sigh she stands, hugging herself as she accepts her tiredness in full, ready at last to resign herself to another night of nightmare and grief. 

The boards beneath her feet creak softly as she moves, Sienna looks up at her and nods a wordless goodnight before returning her attention to Krubers overpraised story.

A thought reaches her just as she lights a hand on the stairway railing. She pauses there, fingers ghosting over the hilt of her dagger just before she settled to draw it. She twirls it as she raises it, the clear, chime like ring of elvish steel greeting her ears with its familiar harshness. She tilts it until the source of her curiosity is captured within its mirrored silver surface.

The reflection of the witch hunter’s signature hat catches her eye first, though her attention is quickly drawn to the details most blatantly absent.

His face is non existent in that sliver of silvery steel, where the edge of the bar behind him is clearly visible in the gap between the collar of his coat and the underside of his hat. Gloved fingers lace themselves together, knuckles pressed to his lips in thought, a position she recognizes even without his face in view.

Her earlier question is certainly answered, she should be satisfied, but she is not. Some small part of her fights the following decision, berates her for the plan brewing in the recesses of her mind as she takes a step back towards the others, turning as she sets her sights on the end of the map table furthest from her chosen target.

Bardin’s careful, “Wutelgi?” falls on deaf ears, watching her closely as she approaches.

She needs this to be right, perfect. Proof must be provided, she has a chance here and now, to out him were he can’t worm his way back into secrecy and paranoia. It won’t fix anything, in fact it may just make things worse, but she finds its a cheap price to pay.

Her free hand finds its way onto Siennas shoulder and the Bright Witch is pulled sideways off her stool as Kerillian moves, one knee sinking to the floor to level her aim. Her two dark eyes meet Saltzpyre’s one, it’s pupil shrinks as her body tenses, falling into motion as the blade is loosed in his direction.


	3. Quickblood

Saltzpyre lurches to his feet just as Kerillian’s fingers leave the daggers hilt.

For a moment, as a burst of warmth rushes through still veins, he panics while watching the world slow to a crawl the blades tip slowing just a few inches from his chest. The ring of pristine elvish silver dims the sound the others make, their heartbeats drowned out by the high chime the dagger emits.

Gorekssons eyes follow just behind the flash of silver it must appear to be, Kruber is caught mid blink, Fuegonasus still reaching for the edge of the table to steady herself. He shifts to the side, far enough to not be touched by searing Ithilmar, watching as it glides smoothly past him, it’s sweet peal mocking him as things come together.

On the other side of the bar is Lohner, the daggers new target now that he is no longer there to take it’s edge. The man is their main procurer of information, with more connections and contacts than he’s been able to map, a curious but crucial member of their team.

He’s important, that’s all it takes to consider grabbing the daggers hilt just as it passes him, feeling the world catch up with him as his veins run cold and dry. One whole second of instinct driven idiocy, and he’s burned a supply of blood that could’ve lasted him days. 

To say he is upset would be a poor descriptor.

He’s furious, the cold, quiet sort that destroys his fear of unwanted attention for the sake of satiating a much fearser need than desecration. It’s made worse by the company, this audience of companions who’ve put their lives in his hands, who now get to watch as his gaze snaps back to the wood elf as he contemplates further abuse of vampiric prowess. It shouldn’t be an option he considers, though it’s certainly worked it’s way up his list of possible choices despite the risk of it being his last.

He can hear them all breathing now that Elm’s curious ringing has been silenced, their slow, careful breaths as tension fills the room.

Kruber says nothing, glancing between the blade, him, and the wood elf. Victor can almost see the pieces clicking together in his head as he glances down at his half full flagon, mulling over how many drinks he’s had, and what he’s just witnessed.

Slowly, the Sargent rises to his feet, a hand coming to rest on the hilt of the executioners blade still resting across the table, prepared to draw it against his own employer.

He doesn’t really blame him, it’s a reasonable stance to take, considering.

“Vampire.” Kerillian drawls, her accent sharpened by the smug tone of her voice. That one word is the headsman's axe to this social execution.

The air in the room grows heavy as Bardin pulls away from the table, narrowly avoiding stumbling over his own seat and shouting, “He’s a bloody Zangunaz!” a word in Khazalid that no doubt means exactly what he thinks it does. Sienna joins the others in standing, choosing to stare at Kerillian instead, as though her willingness to attempt murdering one of their partners confuses her more.

He drops the dagger, taking a quick step backwards toward the bar as it clatters to the floor, hands dropping to his hip in search a weapon that he knows he won’t find there. The Dwarf pulls his hammer from where its been rested against one of the tables legs and Kruber steadys his blade before him. He regrets putting his rapier away, removing the brace of pistols, leaving himself vulnerable like this. It’s wrong to consider attacking them there’s a greater good that comes of them all living, that’s the purpose of five, so one can die and the others may move on. Had he been armed, he thinks, would it really be much better?

The creaking of boards is followed by a firm hand on his shoulder, and out of the corner of his eye he watches Lohner steps around the counter. The innkeeper puts himself just slightly in front of him, other hand raised to offer comfort to the others. “Let’s not start anythin’ that we’ll be regretting later.” He starts, “I’d suppose I’ve some explaining to do.”

He doesn’t quite relax, neither does anyone else, only one pair of eyes follow the barkeep as he moves to lean a hip against the map table.

Markus speaks at last, lowering his sword and resting the broad tip of it on the cracked wooden floor, hands worrying its hilt as he stares the witch hunter down. 

“Lots of it.”


	4. Innkeeper

Saltzpyre had looked ready to argue when Lohner told him to go wait in the cellar, possibly the last thing any of them had expected the barkeep to ask of him. Lohner was rarely so curt with anyone, but his quiet “Cellar. Now.” certainly made it clear who was the authority in that instance. 

They’d given the Witch hunter a wide berth as he made his way to the stairs, and he’d made it a point to be well out of sight as fast as possible.

No one was comfortable with it, aware that Victor was likely fuming in silence just below their feet, an already worrying thought without the addition of current circumstances. Most of them are scared, or angry, or some mixture of the two. 

Sienna, well known for her sour words and sharp wit had been painfully quiet as the others talked, listening intently to the barkeeps explanation.

As it would seem, he’d known what Saltzpyre was the moment he’d caught them out on the streets. The Witch Hunters pale complexion and poor excuse for a sleep cycle led him to confront the man a few nights later after the others had gone to sleep, where Saltzpyre initially panicked and made a show of aggression he clearly still regrets.

“He what?” Markus asks quietly, a harsh tone dripping into his voice. Lohner answers with “Sunk ‘is teeth in me.” Quickly followed by, “Didn’t latch on, s’more of a warning nip than a real bite.” when the soldier arches an eyebrow at him.

Kerillian scoffs. “You say that like one-eye is some wild beast t’be spooked.” 

“For the most part,” Lohner shoots back, “that’s exactly what he is.”

“Yet you didn’t say anything?” Markus snaps, jaw tight and the grip on the hilt of his broad sword growing firmer by the minuet. Bardin, who’s taken to leaning on the opposite side of the map table, winces at the Sergeants harsh voice. “Knowin’ we had a Zanguzi around would’a been nice y’know.” The dwarf adds a little quieter. “Y’could’a said something, Gnolgi.”

The barkeep crosses his arms, brows furrowed and a frown tugging at his lips. “It would’ve made things worse, all of you av’been pretty short with one another.” He shakes his head as he speaks, “We were all safer with it kept quiet.”

Kerillian leans over the table, words sharp with disdain. “We were safer not knowing we were fighting alongside nightkin?”

Sienna rests a hand on the elf’s shoulder. “You still haven’t explained what he’s feeding on, which I’d say is far more important.” Her eyes are hard and her voice is tired, “Continue, Franz.” she ushers.

The barkeep nods a quiet thanks, as her sudden involvement in the conversation seems to have quieted the others.


	5. Bloodlust

Anyone or anything they find unnatural, they oppose.

Witches and Warlocks, Hedge Wizards, Mutants, cultists, Chaos spawn, Undead, anything else that does not conform to the good and righteous is cast down, the victim of another purging.

That’s what he and the rest of the Order do, it comes with the duds and the status, he hunts heretics. That is his job. End of story.

So what must it say about the rest of the Order that he’s technically amongst those ranks? That his heart has long since stopped beating, and that he must steal the blood that pumps sluggishly through his veins? What must it say to others about his devotion to Sigmar? 

He’ll not need to convince himself of much after this, knowing the others are aware now of the fine line between knowing your enemy and becoming your enemy, and just how blurred they’ve become for him. 

How long has the elf been aware? Who else could’ve figured it out since his turning? Who knows is the question that sits darkly in the back of his mind, because it’s answer is one he certainly doesn’t have.

He can hear them, above, even through the haze that comes with feeding. “Taal’s teeth, Lohner, why?” Comes the Sergeants voice, rougher than usual, a tone he’s come to find is reserved for when he is truly angry or offended.

It does not bode well for him.

A sharp tug at his scalp, the feeling of Olesya tugging his hair, draws his attention away from the topic if only for the moment. He‘d like to think that he’s faster with letting her go than he is with Lohner, that the subtle difference in the taste of her blood is one that drives him from wanting to continue feeding. He’d also like to think that he can’t taste the difference or feel the strange weight in Franz’ own blood, that his creeping hunger isn’t kept at bay by willpower, fear, and respect alone. 

It says a lot, what he’d like to think, and how it compares with reality.

He opens his mouth wider, fangs sliding from the inflicted wound in the woman’s forearm, blood dribbling down his chin as he rushes to swallow what drops of it are left.

He licks his lips despite himself, shuddering and curling his fingers into his palms as she withdraws. It’s always something of a struggle to let her or Lohner pull away and cover up their wounds, but he’s loath to succumb to something so unseemly as bloodlust.

He crosses his arms, struggling to be still, to stay there and pointedly ignore the driver and her harsh words as she binds her wound.

He supposes this is what he gets for leaving the elf to her own thoughts; the exposure of his biggest secret, joined by the expending of precious energy, and that cold empty feeling of filtering too little blood through still veins.

There’s a flush returning to his pale cheeks, he can feel it slowly but surely creeping through his veins, a false but lifelike appearance offered by fresh blood and much needed by his hollow features. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand, tracing fingers back over the spot for worry of leaving stains there.

Voices are being raised upstairs, and while he wants to be up there arguing his point, a larger part of him knows why that’s a foolish idea. “Y’expect me to believe he isn’t gonna to feed on any of us?” Again, Kruber, a snarl that makes him shudder. “Or that he hasn’t already?”

“I do expect you t’believe that, yea.” Comes Lohner, infinitely softer, though his gentle tone is in no way passive or submissive. “I don’t think I could even tell y’why that is exactly right.”

“Try.” Kruber growls.

There’s a pause, silence filled with the heavy hammering of hearts and harsh breaths before he continues. “I’ve seen him walk up to shrines and into churches, ain’t none of that affects him. So if you tell me that this,” the tapping of metal joins his voice, undoubtedly him drawing attention to a symbol of worship somewhere on his frame. “is keeping him from doin’ just that, I know you’re lyin’”

He can’t help but cringe at that, the last thing he needs now is the real answer to his question, not yet. He prays Lohner is crafty enough to give him a reason that won’t land one or both of them dead.


	6. Insomnia

Markus’s eyelids feel heavy, his eyes burn with exhausted irritation as he stares blankly into the soupy darkness of his room. The red moon is always far louder than the streets outside, Bardin snoring loudly on one side of the wall, the rhythmic click of heeled ridding boots on the other. He’d often allowed the familiar tune of quick but lengthy strides, interspersed with deep rumbles from the other side of the room, to lull him to sleep.

But tonight Ubersreik’s silence is deafening, the sound of his companions drowned, overshadowed only by that constant rhythm. 

_Click, click, click, click,_ a harsh snap punctuating every turn.

No, these noises brought him little comfort knowing the things that lurk in the silent night outside. Or even just on the other side of his wall, always pacing.

_Click, click, click, snap._

He grumbles and rolls onto his side, he knows he’s facing the door even if he can’t see it. He’ll admit, he’s tempted to go sneak a drink out from behind the bar, the nights earlier merriment brought to a screeching halt by the revelation of a vampire in their midst and what he really needs now is a stiff drink to take this and everything else off his mind.

Even as he swings his legs over the edge of his cot, sore muscles protesting the very act, his ears burn with anger.

He feels stupid, cheated, betrayed. Of all the people he’d have ever suspected, had he ever been suspicious in the first place, it would never be the Witch Hunter.

_Click, click, click, snap._

How could Lohner hide something like that from all of them, knowing full well the danger? How Saltzpyre had as well?

He felt so... stupid. While Victor acts as his superior, Kruber had seen a real friend in him, a brother in arms. Neither particularly special or possessed of inhuman abilities, they were both just average imperials and he’d felt a degree of kinship knowing the man meant to leave the world better than he’d found it, even if his methods made Krubers stomach turn.

He actually thought he’d found friendship with anyone in this motley bunch, much less that cold, heartless, one-eyed—

He shudders, but it’s got nothing to do with the cool air seeping in through the walls. He’d traveled with Saltzpyre for a month before they’d come to Ubersriek, how could he have ever missed something like this? He’d fed hadn’t he? Had Kruber been a victim at some point? Some simple, bluff soldier he could’ve simply disposed of with none the wiser? 

Could he have done that without him knowing? 

_Click, click, snap._

He’s heard plenty of tall tales about dead folk who come back to life, who feed on the blood of the living and bend them to their will. Is it so far out of the way that they could make someone forget about being used like cattle?

They’ve been holed up at the red moon for months, traveled the roads together before that, and not once did he ever suspect that Saltzpyre might...

He shakes his head rubbing his face, pushing his fingers back through his hair, wobbling on his feet as he adjusts to the shift in gravity.

It’s hardly sneaking if everyone in the inn can hear the creaking wooden boards, but It’s that no one interferes that matters, and that allows him out of his room and down behind the bar to lean on its polished surface.

He knows he’ll regret it tomorrow, even as he digs through the shelves behind the counter. A hangover seems a little counter productive, the way things are right now, but that hardly stops him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not only the first of our collaborative efforts, but finally a step towards completion. Big thanks to Randomosity and her friends for the help, and the continued effort to make this fic as good as possible.


	7. In good company

She may no longer be in shackles but she knows well enough that she is still very much a prisoner in Victor’s eyes, albeit one with a use, allowed to traverse the streets freely in exchange for her assistance fighting this... rat-man menace.

And as much glee as she might take in the work all whilst annoying him, the oppressive gloom of the man’s presence is ever at hand, and she hasn’t known sound sleep since her arrest. 

All people born with the talent to work magic have some degree of witchsight that can be developed and expanded with training, so much so a spellcaster may actually see the ebb and flow of the Winds of Magic, witness the scintillating colours of the Chaos energy in its raw form, and be better able to harness it all the better for the casting of spells.

In some ways, this term is negative, as no trained Magister would ever accept being called a witch and certainly do not consider themselves as such. 

Most Magisters took to a less derogatory term like “spirit-sight,” something that had always made her laugh. Some feel, some see, hear or smell magic within the world, some simply... know of its presence.

Her own is a feeling in her gut, one that always burns hot until danger is near, growing tight and vicious where the Winds blew strong.

Never before had it gone cold, a heavy lump of ice in her belly, one with a voice that demands those who hear it kneel.

That had happened in their first meeting, slowly melting away as cold irons had closed about her wrists. It had simply lingered, dimmed by Aqshy’s warming, pleasant presence. Never dominating her awareness, but never out of reach.

Then they’d met the Sargent, then the Dwarf, then the Elf. Every time, a harsh shock of cold, like tendrils of ice curling up her spine.

Again that cold.   
And again, gone just as fast as it has materialized, with all of them crammed shoulder to shoulder in the back of Olesya’s cart for the first time.

She hadn’t felt it again since they reached Ubersriek, not until that evening, where at last it’s cause was brought to the light. Victor appeared to have simply materialized in a different position, suddenly holding a dagger that should’ve been imbedded in his skull, now in the clear and holding it level with Lohners chest. 

That feeling had returned, and with the predatory glare that he leveled upon the elf in that moment he finally completed what that cold had warned of. 

The cold had an almost physical, suppressing weight, heavy and oppressively unrelenting.

When weapons were drawn it vanished entirely, and for the first time in nearly three months the presence of that unwholesome cold lingered only in memory.

It was as though the drawing of the executioner, the gleam of dwarven craft, or the ringing clatter of an elven blade had caused it to simply evaporate. 

She did not miss its presence.

She’d been content then to watch the others in that moment. Kerillian seemed to react to it as well, like a physical weight had been lifted from her, a new smug strength in her tone as she voiced her accusation in just one word.

And Kruber...

He seemed to dominate and fill the space the moment it was gone, he was loud, and angry in a way she’d never seen. He always seemed level headed, or at least reserved, apathetically allowing life to carry him like a boat on the waves without ever acting to change his course.

Content to let fate claim him, even if that fate meant death apparently.

But in that moment that hollow joy, the depressed shell of a man she’d traveled miles with, disintegrated and scattered like ash in the winds. Guided by alcohol and shock and pure fury the cold was replaced by violent, roaring flame.

Even now it hasn’t yet been smothered, simmering hot and low, drawing her to the door of her room to follow its source. The creak of floorboards outside is all she needs to know who’s up and about.

Sienna gives the doorknob of her room a little jiggle, and much to her surprise the door swings open.

During their stay at the Red Moon, Victor had always locked the door of her room when they slept. Always. She supposed he expected her to shank one of them in their sleep at some point. Not tonight.

Kruber has already descended the stairs and begun setting bottles at the table nearest the entrance, attempting to drown himself in alcohol, settling onto the bench to stare blankly up at Morrslieb through the boarded window. 

He swirls the contents of one bottle occasionally, taking long, deep swigs. 

He doesn’t notice her as she descends the steps, or if he had, he doesn’t bother to acknowledge her.

He lurches when she lights a hand upon his forearm, catching himself before he upends his mug into his lap. “Rough night, Sargent?”

He squints up at her, eyes readjusting to the darkness of the inn as compared to the distant gleam of the old worlds moons.

“What’re you doin’ up?” He slurs, tone light and pleasant though failing to hide the underlying hint of annoyance.

“Couldn’t sleep,” She lies, “thought I’d have a drink, calm my nerves.”

He grumbles into his cup, tilting his head back to down the last of its contents. “Don’t let me stop you.”

She arched a brow at him, watching as he emptied the last of a bottle of brandy into his mug, tilting his head back to drink deeply.

Both sit in silence, listening to the muffled snoring of their resident dwarf, she loses count of how many drinks he goes through, eyes starting to wander lazily about the room. He looks less exasperated with every passing drink, eyes watery and face red, he shivers occasionally through the room is quite warm.

“It’s been quite a night, hasn’t it?”

He grumbles something harsh and guttural in answer, finger dragging lazily across the table for another bottle, it might have been something like “Aye” But it had only sounded faintly like it.

She reaches for the bottle first, setting it in front of him, fingers firm about its neck.

“Would you like to talk about it?” She asks warily, watching him glare into his mug. His face softens slightly, brows drawn together as he considers the question. He takes the bottle from her slowly, leaning an elbow into the table and resting his forehead against the cool wood. 

“Did you know about tha’?” He slurs thoughtfully. “You’ve been ‘round ‘im longer, dunno if tha’ means anythin’, cause I didn’t have a clue...”

She opens her mouth to answer and he sits up straight again, tears rolling down his cheeks, alcohol only serving to further him from rationality. He sounds hysterical, voice cracked and harsh with a mix of devastating emotions. “I dunno what t’think, Sienna, I don’t. We traveled nearly three months, we did, and I had no idea!”

“An’ I’m thinkin’ ‘what else ‘as he done? How much ‘ave I missed? Was I just brought along for a quick bite on the road if the going got rough?” He croaks, gasping for breath between words as hot tears roll down his face. “Never should’ve left Ubersriek in the first place, joined the army to keep folk safe, but all I’ve done is put them in more danger.”

_“Left the army to do right where it didn’t, an’ I’ve gone an’ cocked that up too.” ___


	8. An unwelcome reminder

“You’re...” He chuckles, feeling out of breath for the first time in decades, his many wounds weeping the thick, darkened sludge his feeding has left behind. “You’re very determined... aren’t you?”

He shakes his head, brushing a hand over his mouth to feel at his busted lip and the scratch in his gums below it.

He spits on the ground at his feet, pulling the man’s rapier from the floor to examine it as he moves in on him.

“You won’t give up, will you?” He asks, looking down at the young hunter as he struggles to get back to his feet, one arm hanging limp and ravaged from his shoulder, the other pressing its elbow into the floor as he rocks unsteadily.

He kneels in one smooth motion, tilting his head to try and get a look at his face. One whole side is a gored mess of blood and meat, a wide gash that starts in the center of his forehead and curves drown through one brow and eye, ending at the arch of his broken nose. His damaged eye sits still and dead in its socket, bisected and slick with blood and tears. The blooming of a gaudy shade of purple and brown confirms his suspicions of a broken nose, forcing the boy to suck in ragged and uneven breaths through his clenched teeth.

“You’ll just keep going,” he says, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning in closer. The man leans back on his haunches, groaning as he pushes himself to sit upright, head hung as he continues. “because you can.”

“And because you can,” he purrs.

“you have to.”

He grabs a fistful of his hair and forces him to look up at him, showing him the blood splattered blade of his own rapier. 

“I must say, I’m impressed.” He continues, resting the broad side of the blade along the curve of his chin, watching him squirm. “You’re rather steady, for your age.”

He winces as the point of his own blade cuts into his neck, a thin, shallow cut below his jaw. The rapier clatters to the ground as he discards it in favor of dragging his fingers along the new wound, pressing them into it. The man hisses at his touch, squirming in his grip.

He bares his teeth in a broad grin as they’re withdrawn, licking the scarlet stained pads of his fingers where he can be seen.

“If you’re going to kill me,” The boy pants finally, undamaged lids closing over his good eye. “just do it, heathen.”

“Kill you?” He huffs a laugh, pulling him off balance by his scalp. “No, no. If anything is going to kill you tonight, it’ll be the vermin.” He stands and steps over him, listening to him groan and shift uncomfortably.

“I’ve a much better idea.” He’ll be surprised if his wounds don’t kill him, but if they don’t...

Alberich is on his way to a nice set up.


	9. Should you recall

He blinks up at the ceiling boredly, drawn back to the waking world against his will. That dream, prior to his rebirth and always just as gorey as it first occurrence, never seems to let him rest as long as he’d like.

Victor much prefers it, his first meeting with the vampire in the mines, to the lingering memory of his turning. One hand slides up from his chest to touch his face, feeling the soft flesh neath his empty socket, where muscle and sinnew have long since surrendered. That side of his face always seems less... firm. Sagging where muscle was torn away from his skull by a runners blade, the bone of his socket grooved harshly where a creature had once intended to break through it.

Fingers brush over the lids, a hairless brow, and lines in his forehead, lost in contemplation before settling to rise for the day. He rolls into his side, pulling the small, square case that holds his glass eye from the bedstand and rolling out out of bed. 

He’s both blessed and cursed by the numbness that keeps him from feeling the soreness in his back and knees, aches and pains that had slowed him years earlier. It’s not uncommon that he actually miss those, and betimes that it feels his missing eye is missing no more.

_That maddening itch. _He shivers.__

__The habit of drawing his tongue up the underside of his glass eye before popping it into its socket is one he’s failed to kick, though it no longer serves to smooth its rotation, with him mouth long since dry. He blinks, and blinks again, feeling it roll trying to keep track of where it’s false iris is so as to keep it from starting blindly up at the sky, or rolling up in his socket._ _

__Another day is to be greeted, and yet as he recalls the events of the previous night, he finds himself dressing with far less enthusiasm for the day at hand. There is always more work to do yes, and he certainly hasn’t tired of it, but knowing that he shall have to face his companions again, he is not looking forward to whatever attention his revealed affliction may draw to him._ _


End file.
